


Best before

by Anneth_is_alright



Category: Youtube RPF
Genre: Ellipsis Abuse, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Timers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anneth_is_alright/pseuds/Anneth_is_alright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmate AU.<br/>"But I love you."<br/>"I know, baby, and I love you too. But tomorrow you will fall for someone else."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best before

**Author's Note:**

> Soulmate AU with timers on people's wrists counting down to the moment when one meets their soulmate.
> 
> Translated into Russian [here ](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3831926)

**06 months, 20 days, 06 hours, 01 minute, 15 seconds**

"It's you."

Connor looks up from his phone inquisitively, searching for the owner of the unfamiliar voice. His eyes immediately fall upon two boys standing right in front of him. He knows one of them well - a little bit too well, Connor thinks sometimes, - the other is a stranger.

"Hi, Tyler," Connor greets his best friend, sending a polite smile to the boy beside him. 

The boy has a weird expression on his face, his eyes bright, almost sparkling, and he looks like he wants nothing more than to envelop Connor in his warm embrace.

"Connor, this is Troye," Tyler gestures between them.

Troye is smiling at him impossibly widely now, relief written all over his features, as he sighs breathily, "It's so good to meet you. _Finally_." His smile doesn't falter for a second.

Slightly taken aback by the boy's enthusiasm, Connor returns the grin nevertheless, putting his phone down on the coffee table, "Likewise. Tyler has told me so much about you."

But Troye doesn't respond. 

His eyes are glued to the inside of Connor's exposed forearm, where glowing digits continue their relentless ticking, marking days and minutes until Connor finally meets his soulmate. 

Tearing his gaze away from Connor, Troye pulls down the sleeves of his sweater harshly but Connor still manages to catch a glimpse of numbers on his arm.

Ten zeros. So the boy must have already met his...

Suddenly everything - Troye's toothy smile, and hopeful words, and devastation upon seeing Connor's numbers - makes sense.

And then Troye starts moving, and Connor would have expected someone who looks like him - like he is fucking royalty or whatnot - to move with poise and grace, but Troye doesn't. He is awkward and uncoordinated, and he resembles a fawn that is learning how to walk for the first time, and he is leaving.

"Shit!" Connor swears uncharacteristically loudly, and jogs after the boy, leaving a confused Tyler Oakley behind. "Troye, wait!"

The same moment when Troye's hand lands on the doorknob, Connor's hand lands on Troye. "Stop. Don't run away. Please," Connor begs, not knowing himself why catching up with this boy is so important. He circles his fingers around Troye's wrist, mere inches below the goddamned numbers, and asks in a small voice, "Did they hit zero today?"

Troye nods, and the brusque movement makes the tears welled up in his eyes spill.

"Did they hit zero just now?"

He nods again.

"Could it be someone else in the room?" Connor knows the answer to this question but he needs to be sure.

Troye shakes his head sullenly, "I know everybody else here. It's either you or Tyler's mom," he offers Connor a pained smile.

And the boy looks so broken, so vulnerable that Connor's heart aches. He wraps his hands around Troye, and the other boy turns out to be taller, so Connor has to stand on his tiptoes, but he doesn't mind.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"It's not your fault," Troye counters.

"It's not yours either. I'm sorry," Connor repeats insistently.

 

**05 months, 01 day, 02 hours, 43 minutes, 31 seconds**

"I still don't understand how you two work," Tyler says one day.

Connor just shrugs, "He is a good kid."

"But he is in love with you," comes an angry reply. "Con, you can't do that to him! He is only 18, for fuck's sake."

Connor flinches from the tone of his friend's voice. Last time Tyler used it was when a weird bearded man in his forties tried to grope Connor at a club, and now he knows what it is like to be the recipient of such concentrated hatred.

But Tyler doesn't hate him per se - Connor knows -Tyler hates the fate, God, the Architect, whoever's mind is fucked up enough to come up with this twisted, cruel joke.

"You should have seen him," Tyler, worn out, slides onto the chair, "Then you would probably understand."

And Tyler tells him how excited and joyous Troye was the day before he met Connor, skipping up and down merrily, refusing to tell Tyler the reason for his excitement. "I have a good feeling about your party, Ty," was all he said. Tyler tells him how Troye's eyes shone with an intrigued gleam when he learnt that Connor would be there. "I'm looking forward to meeting your friend, Ty," was all he said. Tyler tells him how Troye refused to speak to anyone for a straight week after the party and didn't leave his apartment for a fortnight. "I have no chances, Ty," was all he said.

Tyler tells him how he wishes he never invited Troye to the party. Connor listens and wishes the timer on his arm stopped the second he saw this beautiful boy.

"Can't we be soulmates, like, platonically?" Connor asks sheepishly, receiving only a disappointed glare from his best friend.

"Don't play dumb, you and I both know that this is not how it works," Tyler responds, rubbing his wrist, where for as long as he remembers have been only ten zeros. His parents say that he hit zero when he was in nursery school. The problem is that he doesn't remember anyone from his nursery school.

"But I can like him, can't I?" Connor sounds unsure, conflicted.

Tyler sighs tiredly, "Of course you can. But think about what will happen to the two of you when your numbers hit zero." 

**03 months, 27 days, 18 hours, 18 minutes, 59 seconds**

Connor is already used to constantly wearing sweaters, and jackets, and pullovers, and dress shirts, and hoodies. Basically, any item of clothing that would cover his forearms. Troye seemingly has caught up on this little mind trick of his but he doesn't comment on it. Neither does Connor when he notices Troye scratching his own arm, right where the ten zeros are, to the point where it resembles a motor tic.

The only way to stop the neurosis that Connor can come up with is to hold Troye's hand. And he grips the other boy's hand tightly, and even if it cuts off the circulation, Troye doesn't complain.

So they sit and watch movies on the couch in Connor's living room, and Connor has Troye's cold fingers caged into his own shorter, warmer ones.

"Can I-," Troye stutters, "can I ask you for something?"

Connor immediately turns his attention to the boy next to him.

Troye looks like he is debating something, his face a mask of regret, "You can say 'no' if you don't want to."

Connor tries to give him his best, warmest smile, "That is kinda the point of asking, Tro."

He doesn't laugh at Connor's lame joke, whispering instead, "May I kiss you, please?"

Dumbfounded, Connor stares back, "I'm not sure this is such a good idea."

What breaks Connor's heart is the lack of disappointment on Troye's face - he has been expecting rejection. 

"Yeah, you are probably right. I just thought," he gives out a small huff of self-deprecating laughter, "I just thought that I should at least try asking you once before you meet your..." Troye makes a vague gesture, taking a steadying breath, "Your..." But the word fails to pass his lips, and he tries once again, "Your..."

And Connor wants to cry as he looks at the struggling, suffocating boy in front of him who will probably live the rest of his life, not knowing what it is like to be loved like he deserves to.

So he leans forward, releasing Troye's fingers, and presses their mouths together, and - fuck - it is probably the best kiss he has ever had in his short life.

Troye surrenders, he keeps falling and falling backwards, his hands buried in Connor's hair, dragging him down, until they both lie prostrate on the couch, not for a second stopping their kiss.

Until Connor shifts, applying or releasing the pressure from where it makes Troye moan, and Connor stops.

Troye is looking up at him with wide eyes, his hair a mess, his lips already swollen. "Wow," he whispers.

"Wow indeed," agrees Connor, thinking about how kissing your soulmate is supposed to be the best feeling in the world and wondering how it is going to measure up to what he has just experienced.

 

**02 months, 19 days, 07 hours, 00 minutes, 03 seconds**

Troye has a weird, almost masochistic fascination with Connor's numbers. 

He can watch them silently for hours, until Connor's arm is asleep and he has to move to the other side. He touches the area gently, making Connor squirm from tickling. He scratches the digits, silently wishing that they stopped their ruthless countdown or that they never stopped running at all.

When confronted about this fixation, Troye answers simply, "It's like we have an expiration date." He smiles, although Connor doesn't like this smile, it is not warm, it is almost psychotic, "You know, how they write on milk cartons 'Best before'?"

Just when Connor opens his mouth to reply, Troye shushes him imperiously.

"Shut up, Connor."

And he pins him by the wrists with one hand, while the other travels down his body, leaving fire and electricity in its trail. 

Connor wants to object, he wants to talk to Troye, more importantly, he wants Troye to talk to him, but the boy's hand is already tugging at the elastic of his underwear. "Just shut up, shut up."

And while Troye's hand is pumping roughly, harshly, not faltering its rhythm for even a second, his teeth bite into the soft skin on the inside of Connor's forearm. 

Troye swears that he can feel with his tongue how the numbers change. Connor doesn't believe him but he thinks that they don't change as fast as usual when Troye is kissing him there, so he doesn't mind.

 

**01 month, 09 days, 08 hours, 11 minutes, 56 seconds**

"Don't. Stop." Troye gasps as his hands tug at Connor's hair almost painfully.

Connor wants to do just that in retaliation for the harsh treatment but Troye is so beautiful, so responsive, sprawled under him with his head thrown back in ecstatic agony that Connor can't help but want more of this. Of Troye. 

So he speeds up his movements, eliciting a prolonged moan from the other boy.

"Connor, please," Troye looks down at him but his gaze is unfocused, eyelids fluttering close every few seconds as another wave of pleasure hits him. "Please, please, I love you, please."

It takes all of Connor's self-control to continue his ministrations as if nothing happened. Of course, he knew that Troye loves him - he is Troye's soulmate, after all - but the boy has never explicitly told him that.

"Please, Connor, please, I love you so much," Troye is positively an incoherent, mumbling wreck.

And as the boy's back arches off the bed, his legs tightening around Connor's shoulders, Connor desperately wants to say those words back but he doesn't know whether his love counts if he is supposed to be in love with another person.

 

**00 months, 01 day, 07 hours, 48 minutes, 22 seconds**

Connor is so engrossed in everything that is Troye that he loses track of time completely. 

That is why he suspects nothing when Troye asks him one day, his voice disturbingly even, borderline lifeless.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

Connor ponders a little, "I don't know, Ricky's sorta throwing a party for his friend from Alabama."

"Okay, cool," Troye answers, as he walks around Connor's room, picking up his clothes and throwing them into a pile.

"Does this mean that you want to go or not?" Connor turns to look at Troye with a smile. 

"You should probably go alone," answers Troye, starting to fold the clothes and stuff them into a duffel bag.

Connor is frowning now, "Wait, what are you doing? Why are you... packing?"

Troye is momentarily distracted from the task at hand. He shoots Connor a small, sad smile and sighs, "Have you checked your numbers recently, Con?"

The boy's face is instantly drained of blood, as he rolls up the sleeve hastily, "There is no way, we should have plenty of time." And then he sees the digits. "There must be a glitch or something."

There are way too many zeros.

Troye's smile is wavering now, and he hides his face, turning away from Connor and back to his bag.

"You are leaving? Please, Troye, don't leave," Connor's hands squeeze Troye's tightly but this time he breaks free from the hold.

"Don't do this to me, Connor," his voice is distant and cold, nothing like it used to be.

"But I love you," Connor pleads.

At this Troye looks up, his gaze warm and understanding, "I know, baby. I love you too. But tomorrow you will fall in love with someone else."

Connor is usually a composed person but now he is on the verge of hysteria, "I won't go to the party, right, Tro? I don't need to be there, so I won't go," he suggests frantically. 

Troye gives a pained sigh, dropping a t-shirt he was holding, and walks up to Connor, "Come on, baby, calm down. There's no need to be upset. You will just go to this party and, when your timer hits zero, you will meet this handsome, sweet, great guy and fall for him immediately, and he will fall for you."

"But I have you already," Connor argues. "And you are leaving me because of something that has not even happened yet!"

Troye folds his arms on his chest, glancing at Connor with a bemused exasperation, "Don't do this to me," he repeats. "Don't make me stay. I can handle leaving you but I can't handle seeing you fall for someone else. Let me save myself, please."

And Connor exhausts all his rationale, and lets Troye pack his clothes. He knows that if he insists Troye will stay but he also knows that it will kill him.

When Troye is done, he comes up to Connor once again, "Thank you," he says, "you gave me much more than you were supposed to and you loved me much more than you had to. You are my soulmate."

And tears fall down Connor's face because he can't say the same, so he just wraps his arms around Troye, standing on his tiptoes.

"I'm sorry," mumbles Troye.

"It's not your fault," Connor argues feebly.

"It's not yours either. I'm sorry."

With that, Troye leaves.

 

**00 months, 00 days, 00 hours, 00 minutes, 59 seconds**

Connor knocks on the door. No reply. Damning his haste, he knocks again, louder. 

"Just a minute!" a voice calls out from the inside.

Connor smiles at the irony - he doesn't have a minute. He has only about 30 seconds now.

He hears muffled footsteps, a loud bang and an even louder curse, and looks down on his arm.

10, 9, 8.

The door opens.

7, 6, 5.

"Connor?" Troye asks, gripping the door tightly. 

Connor raises his bare arm and shows Troye the digits.

4, 3, 2, 1.

When numbers hit zero, Connor kisses his soulmate and thinks that it is, indeed, the most amazing thing in the world.


End file.
